I'll Follow You
by brightsilverkitty
Summary: In a world where Voldemort won the First Wizarding War, Hermione Granger is an undereducated domestic servant with few rights. The brightest thing in her life is her mistress, The widow Bellatrix Lestrange. When Bellatrix is called to fight against the growing rebellion, Hermione follows her, and discovers that she's much more capable than she realized.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: Call to Arms

Hermione didn't like to think of what might have been, but sometimes it came to her when she least expected it. While she was scrubbing a stubborn stain out of one of her mistress' robes, or when she was walking two steps behind her mistress in the shops at Diagon Alley, carrying the shopping parcels and trying to wear a placent expression as other Purebloods looked her over as if she were another item in the shop.

But worst of all was when she was lying in her mistress' arms, tangled in a stolen moment of tenderness while the rest of the household slept. In those moments, the what-if's flooded her mind and made her throat heavy with hurt.

What if The Dark Lord had been defeated in the Great Wizarding War?

What if she received the same education as the Purebloods, instead of the flurry of basic spellwork and domestic charms that muggleborns learned for a life in service?

What if muggleborns were afforded the same rights as half-bloods, to go to school and seek regular professions?

What if she had been born a Pureblood?

True, there was a rumor about a boy who had the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. The Confederation for Equal Wizardry had circulated those rumors for twenty five years. The small band of fighters had gone underground when the Dark Lord took power of the Ministry, but they still appeared every two years or so, sending packets of literature and promising a better future if the population of Magical Britain would only stand up and fight!

But how was a witch with only a third-year education that consisted mainly of household cleaning charms supposed to join the resistance? Hermione had no one, save her mistress. Like the other muggleborns, she had been whisked away from her muggle parents the moment she displayed signs of magic. The Muggleborn Children's Institute where she had been raised had drilled into her that she was inferior to those of Pureblood status, with weaker magic and no aptitude for the stronger spells. Those who had more training or means had been whisked away to France, or Spain, or Germany, or the United States.

Her friends were all in similar positions. Domestic servants or factory workers scattered across Britain. She didn't know the last time she had exchanged letters with any of them. It had been at least three years, since her relationship with her mistress had crossed a line from "friendly" to "passionate."

In the dim light of her mistress' room, Hermione twisted so that she able to see her mistress' face. The Widow Lestrange was the most beautiful woman Hermione had ever seen. With smooth cheeks, finely arching brows, and lips that were constantly smirking at her when she was awake.

Hermione had come to Lestrange manor when she was fourteen. Under the careful eye of Mrs. Hawkins, the housekeeper, she had risen over the years from kitchen maid, to parlor maid, to lady's maid. Mrs. Hawkins had been the closest thing to a mother that Hermione knew. She fretted and fussed over all the maids, but she paid special attention to Hermione.

"You're staring at me again," her mistress said, eyes still closed.

Hermione felt her cheeks warm. "I was just thinking," she said slowly.

Dark eyes fluttered open, and Bellatrix smiled easily. "About what?"

"About when we first met," Hermione said, not wanting to admit to the what-ifs. If her mistress suspected she was ungrateful… Hermione swallowed.

Bellatrix snaked an arm around Hermione's waist and pulled her closer. She nuzzled Hermione's curls, and let out a contented sigh. "When you burned the cake for my birthday? And I had to serve fruit instead?"

Hermione blushed further at the mention, she had been a hopeless kitchen maid. "No, I was thinking of when you accepted me as your lady's maid."

"You were so nervous," Bellatrix teased, pressing soft kisses to Hermione's neck. "Do I still scare you?"

Hermione swallowed. "Sometimes."

"Good," there was laughter in Bellatrix's voice. "I like you as my little Mouse."

Hermione shivered, and smiled as Bellatrix pulled her even closer so that they were flush against each other.

It had been her nineteenth birthday when Mrs. Hawkins greeted her with a new uniform and whispered that Maggie, the previous lady's maid, had gotten pregnant, and had run off with one of the drivers.

"_I can't serve the Mistress!" Hermione had said, "She hates me!" _

"_You're the only one I trust to do the job correctly, my girl," said Mrs. Hawkins severely. "You're going to give it a try, and if it doesn't work out we'll discreetly move you back to the parlour when a replacement comes." _

As it turned out, Hermione liked the work. Her mistress expected her to accompany her everywhere, from the painting classes to the lectures on magical theory. Hermione liked learning, and when Bellatrix began asking her opinion on where they should go next, Hermione lost her heart to her mistress entirely.

Bellatrix traced the column of Hermione's throat with a lazy finger that made Hermione's breath catch. "I was thinking that we might go to the library today," she purred. "Maybe we could read more about the history of the druids?"

"Wh-whatever you'd like, mistress." Hermione said, finding it difficult to think.

Bellatrix's fingers traced lower, down the curve of Hermione's breasts and belly, until she teased little circles into the skin just below Hermione's belly button. "Perhaps we can have a little fun before we go," she husked.

Hermione swallowed, her mouth dry. "Y-yessss."

Bellatrix laughed throatily, and leaned down to press hot kisses against Hermione's mouth. Her fingers skimmed lower, and Hermione arched into them, begging-

There was a loud banging on the door of the bedroom. "Mistress!" Mrs. Hawkins called out. "Mistress!"

Bellatrix growled in frustration, and called "What is it Hawkins?"

"Lord Malfoy is here to see you, Mistress. He says it's urgent!"

Bellatrix frowned. "Why is he here?" She mused. She pulled away and stood, "I'll be in the parlour in ten minutes Hawkins, find him some tea in the meantime."

"Yes Mistress." There was the sound of receding footsteps.

To Hermione, Bellatrix said, "I can get dressed myself. You run along to your room."

Hermione was still panting, half in fear half in arousal, but she dutifully rolled off the bed and pulled on her nightgown. She padded barefoot into her mistress' sitting room and then into the little bedroom she had called her own for six years. She had tried to brighten it up with photographs of magical creatures, the kind she had read about in school. The unicorns and phoenixes romped cheerfully above an iron bed, her nightstand with a stack of books and her wand, and the bureau with its chipped mirror.

Hermione knew she would be unable to sleep now, so she changed into the black dress that was her uniform, and smoothed an apron over it. She tucked her hair into a knot at the base of her skull and stepped into her shoes.

Mrs. Hawkins was in the kitchen, a single candle before her on the long table that the staff used for meals. She arched a brow at Hermione and said, "I see she's kept you up too late."

Mrs. Hawkins was the only one who knew about Hermione's relationship with their mistress. She did not approve, mainly because it was dangerous for Hermione if they were caught.

Hermione sat beside her, "Do you know why he's here?"

Mrs. Hawkins sighed. "He said he had urgent news from the Dark Lord. Though why they didn't call her with the mark... " She shook her head, and stood to rummage around in the cupboards. She returned a moment later with a soft piece of bread and some apple preserves. "Eat, you may need to pack for the mistress if she is called away."

Hermione pricked up, "Called away?"

"In the days of the war, the mistress and Lord Lestrange were called away all the time," Mrs. Jenkins said. "They'd traipse off at all hours of the day and night and come back covered in who knows what." She shuddered, "I hope it's not come to that again. But there are rumors… Eat, my girl, eat."

Hermione spread some of the preserves on her bread and took a bite. "What kind of rumors?"

"The C.E.W. is active again in the North. They raided one of the Muggleborn Children's Institutes and kidnapped all the children." Mrs. Hawkins clucked. "Poor dears. I don't know what they're planning to do with them."

Hermione swallowed. "Surely they wouldn't hurt them," she said. "They're all for equality."

"Well, I hope none of those children get the wrong idea from being with the resistance," Mrs. Hawkins said, sniffing. "There was a group of lads that got it in their mind that they should be able to go to the same school as the half-bloods and purebloods, and they staged a protest." Mrs. Hawkins shuddered, "The whole lot of them had their wands snapped and their memories wiped. Some say they even received the kiss!"

Hermione gaped at her, "Surely that's a rumor too," she said. "The Dark Lord wouldn't send a bunch of boys to the dementors just for asking for the same education. He," she swallowed, remembering the teachings that had been drilled into her as a child, "He looks out for us. He knows we aren't strong enough, so he's set up the institutions as a way to care for us and ensure we have futures!"

Something close to pity entered Mrs. Hawkins' eyes. "Yes," she said gently. "Well, it was different in my day, of course. Everyone just went to Hogwarts."

Hermione felt a flash of envy and tamped it down. Like the other muggleborns of her generation, she had gone to a muggleborn academy instead of Hogwarts.

There was a soft chime, and Mrs. Hawkins stood. "Go back to your rooms now, my girl. The mistress may have need of you."

Sure enough, Hermione had scarcely entered the sitting room when Bellatrix appeared. Her mistress was flushed, her eyes round with excitement, and she crossed to where Hermione was standing and seized her hands.

"He's summoned me," she said breathlessly.

Hermione's heart lurched, though she did not know why. "Who?"

"The Dark Lord! There have been three battles in the north, where the rebels are. The Dark Lord wants me to lead the hunt to flush them out and end this C.E.W. nonsense forever!"

Hermione bit her lip, "So you'll be gone during the days?"

Bellatrix shook her head. "This is too important to waste valuable energy on apparating. I need to be up there, where I can supervise properly day and night."

"You're leaving the manor?" Hermione felt her stomach sink. She could not imagine the manor without her mistress in it.

At this, the excitement in Bellatrix's eyes dimmed. "For a time, yes. You don't understand how important this is. If we can squash the resistance before they build up an actual army we can secure the future of magical Britain once and for all!"

Hermione dropped her gaze to the collar of Bellatrix's robes. There was a loose thread there that she should have noticed and fixed. If she focused on that, maybe she could swallow down the tears that threatened to rise.

Soft hands cradled her chin and forced her gaze upwards. "I won't ask you to join me," Bellatrix said softly. "It will be a hard life, we might spend hours or days in the field. I would like to have you at my side, to make it-" she swallowed, "... easier. But I won't pull you away from the safety of the Manor. You're protected here, and I can't ask you to risk your safety for me."

Hope swelled in Hermione's chest. "You want me with you?"

"Of course I want you with me," Bellatrix's gaze was warm, and made Hermione feel as if she'd just downed a warm butterbeer. "You're my lucky little witch."

There were times when Hermione wondered if her mistress felt half the way she did about their relationship. It kept her up some nights, staring into her candle and wondering if she was merely a distraction for her mistress to ease away her boredom with.

Then there were moments like this, where she felt wonderful and important.

"Of course I'll come," she said. "I wouldn't want you to be up there alone."

Bellatrix grinned a dazzling smile, and Hermione felt herself melt.

"Well, we'd better go to Diagon Alley. We leave tomorrow morning and there's so much we need to prepare!" Bellatrix leaned forward and kissed Hermione on the forehead. "Fetch the floo powder, Granger!"

Feeling dazed, Hermione ran to comply.

* * *

A/N: So this universe has been rattling around inside my brain for a few months, and I'm finally putting it down on paper. If you're interested in seeing it continue please let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

The manor was finally quiet. The other maids had gone to bed, and Hermione sat in Mrs. Hawkins' office with her battered suitcase and her freshly laundered clothing.

"Is the mistress asleep?" Mrs. Hawkins asked as she folded a coat and shrank it to fit in the suitcase.

Hermione nodded, rolling up pairs of stockings. "She wants to be well rested for tomorrow."

Mrs. Hawkins sighed. "You know you can stay here with me," she said gently. "It'll be a nice holiday, not having to look after the mistress. You could go with the rest of the girls down to the village and meet a nice chap. The village boys are all respectable, I've known them for years."

Hermione made a face, "I don't think I'll be interested in them," she said, rolling up another pair of woolen stockings. "I think seven pair are enough," she said quietly, marking the stockings on a packing list. "That just leaves shoes and toiletries."

Mrs. Hawkins looked sorrowful. "Meet a nice girl, then Hermione. Someone you can settle down with."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "I don't want a nice girl, either. I'm perfectly happy with how things are."

"The mistress doesn't love you, Hermione!" Mrs. Hawkins said loudly. "She's just lonely, is all. Once you get up north and she gets to working for him again she'll cast you aside like yesterday's _Prophet_, and you'll be up there unhappy and overworked!"

Hermione shrank her old pair of boots. They were second hand, but dragon hide, and made to withstand the elements. Thoughts of her mistress tumbled around in her mind. Thoughts she didn't want to have. "I know there's a chance that she'll lose interest in me," she said slowly.

Mrs. Hawkins let out a dry laugh, "There's more than a chance-"

"But she still needs me," Hermione said, raising her voice over Mrs. Hawkins', "I can make her life a little easier, and I can't imagine anyone else taking care of her."

Mrs. Hawkins looked as if she'd been smacked. "You've fallen in love with her," she whispered.

Hermione's cheeks burned, but she met Mrs. Hawkins' gaze levelly, "I'd do anything for her," she said truthfully.

"Oh, my girl!" Mrs. Hawkins' hands moved as if to reach for Hermione, but fell short. "She wouldn't do the same for you. She's in love with the Dark Lord, and his cause. It would be so much simpler if you could find someone more suitable-"

Hermione laughed, "Who is more suitable? Should I go marry a dockhand or a factory worker and live in a grimy little flat? Should I churn out kids who'll become nothing more than dockhands, factory workers, and servants?"

"A family doesn't have to be rich to be happy," said Mrs. Hawkins with forced cheer, "My Bobby and I weren't rich, but we had a good home. We need dockhands and factory workers, they're just as important as the rest of 'em. My Bobby didn't go to Hogwarts, but he was a clever man, and he lived an important life!"

Hermione relented a little, "I know that the laborers are just as important as anyone," it had been drilled into them at the Institute, "but…" She bit her lip, and thought about her next words carefully, "when I'm with the Mistress I feel… more than just another servant. I feel alive."

Pity filled Mrs. Hawkin's eyes, and Hermione wished she had not spoken.

"My girl, you _are_ a servant. A good one, and a clever one, but a servant nonetheless. It does you no good to forget it."

"Well, I can't forget it, can I?" Hermione shot. "Not when everyone and everything reminds me!" She slammed her hands down on the table, making the contents of her suitcase rattle. To her embarrassment, she could feel tears prickle at her lashes, and she hung her head to hide them.

Worn fingers covered hers. "You need just as much sleep as the Mistress tonight," Mrs. Hawkins said. "It'll be a big day for you tomorrow. Why don't you run to bed, and I'll finish this up?"

Glumly, Hermione nodded. She gave a halfhearted goodnight to Mrs. Hawkins, and slipped back through the familiar servant's staircase to climb the stairs to her little room.

With the light from her wand she scrubbed her face clean and changed into her nightgown, then climbed beneath the cold covers of her bed. She spent more nights than not with her mistress, and it was difficult to fall asleep without the familiar rhythmic breathing.

Eventually, however, exhaustion overpowered her, and she slid into a dreamless sleep.

XX

The next morning, Mrs. Hawkins woke her before dawn and insisted she come down for early breakfast. The housekeeper wore an expression of forced cheeriness, and kept her voice light.

The other maids were sleepy but kind to Hermione. Their work would be lighter with the mistress gone, and they would have more afternoons off to look forward to. They slapped her back and slid little sweets into her pockets.

"I made your favorite," Mrs. Hawkins said, bringing forth bilberry jam on toast, along with streaky bacon and a cup of sugared tea. She sat close to Hermione as the young woman ate, her eyes watery.

When the bell rang that signalled the mistress had woken earlier than usual, one of the other maids jumped up to take her breakfast up.

"You sit right there, and eat as much as you can," Mrs. Hawkins said to Hermione. "Merlin knows when you'll have another moment to yourself."

Hermione didn't tell her that she hated being by herself. Instead she reached for Mrs. Hawkins' hand and squeezed it.

The minutes ticked by, and Hermione finished every bite of her breakfast and another glass of tea.

"You'd better go up," Mrs. Hawkins said finally. She stood with Hermione, and pulled her into a hug. "Please, take care of yourself my girl," she said, her voice breaking.

Hermione hugged her back, trying to put all of her gratefulness into the gesture. "I'm sure we'll see each other again soon," she said, pulling away at last.

Mrs. Hawkins gave a small smile, "I'm sure we will." She brought forth Hermione's shrunken suitcase, "I've packed the essentials, but if you need anything at all you're to owl me immediately. I'll get it to you."

Hermione nodded, and kissed Mrs. Hawkins on the cheek.

"Oh," Mrs. Hawkins walked her to the base of the servant's staircase, and watched her go up.

Despite how sorry she was to leave Mrs. Hawkins behind, Hermione couldn't stop the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach as she entered her mistress' rooms and sank into a curtsey.

"Finally," Bellatrix said, lips quirked in a teasing smirk. "I thought you might have changed your mind."

Hermione's breath caught as she straightened. "Never," she breathed.

Bellatrix gestured to the trunk Hermione had packed the day before, "My things are all in there, I think. Where did I put my wand- ah, here it is!"

Hermione shrank the trunk and put it into her pocket, along with another case that contained the tent her mistress intended to keep on hand. While Bellatrix wrote a list of last minute instructions to Mrs. Hawkins, Hermione ran to her own little room and grabbed her cloak.

"Are we taking a portkey?" She asked once she'd returned to her mistress' sitting room.

Bellatrix waved her hand, "I'll apparate us. It's so much easier than getting the Ministry involved."

Hermione's stomach gave a nervous flutter as Bellatrix stepped closer. Hermione was unable to apparate herself, and the two times she'd been side-along apparated had ended poorly. Indeed, as she felt the familiar squeezing sensation her breakfast rose to her throat. The scream that bubbled up was cut off as she felt her body being pulled through time and space, it was all she could do to keep her breakfast from coming up entirely.

In a matter of seconds- which really felt more like years- solid ground materialized under her feet. Hermione wobbled, and pressed her flushed face into Bellatrix's cool neck. A moment later she stiffened. How could she be so careless? She didn't even know where she was! What if someone had _seen?_

But Bellatrix's warm chuckle washed over her. "Come, little Mouse, surely it's not that bad?"

Hermione took a deep breath, and shook her head. Slowly, she looked around.

They were standing in an alley between two brick buildings. A line of washing hung above them. Their only witness was an orange eyed tabby that sniffed at them hopefully from behind a rubbish bin.

"Where are we?" Hermione asked when she was able to speak again.

Bellatrix's hand was warm on her shoulder. "Hogsmeade. It's a little village by my old school. It's perfectly safe," she said, misjudging the look on Hermione's face. "The Dark Lord's forces are here now, and no one will get past them."

Hermione swallowed, and offered up a weak smile, "I know I'm safe as long as I'm with you."

Warmth entered the grey-blue eyes of her mistress, and Bellatrix pressed a chaste kiss to Hermione's forehead. Then she pulled back. "I've got to meet Lucius and the others at the Three Broomsticks," she said, "We have rooms at the Little Rose Inn, will you set them up for me?"

Hermione nodded.

"That's my Mouse," Bellatrix said, her eyes sparkling. "I'll be back for lunch, and then I'll show you around. I think you'll love it here."

"I'm sure I will," Hermione said.

Bellatrix stroked a single finger down the length of Hermione's nose, and then walked briskly towards the front of the alley. "The Inn is back there," she called out, "You'll find it easily."

Hermione watched her go, and then felt a jolt rush through her, "Wait!" She cried, "Mistress! My- my pass!"

Bellatrix swore loudly, and then turned on her heel and came back. "Stupid things," she muttered under her breath as she searched her robes. "You'd think they'd allow a permanent pass by now, it's been so long-" She made a face as she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket, the lines already filled. "Get me a quill," she sighed.

Hermione had to enlarge her suitcase, and nearly dropped her clothes onto the wet cobblestone before she unearthed a self-inking quill.

Bellatrix held the paper against the brick wall and scratched out the previous writing. "It's already got your name and wand registration," she said, and then gave Hermione an apologetic look, "I'll purchase a new pad of them on my way back."

Hermione nodded, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. Any Muggleborn outside of their residential town or city needed a pass from their employer explaining their purpose for being there. It made it doubly difficult for muggleborns without employers to move freely, as they had to get a pass from the Ministry's Department of Muggleborn Affairs, and that could take weeks or even months to arrange.

"Thank you," Hermione said when Bellatrix handed her the square of paper.

Bellatrix nodded, and turned to go.

Hermione turned to the little street at her end of the alley, and followed it past several shops. Eventually she found the Little Rose Inn at the edge of town, where cobbled street became dirt road and the houses thinned.

The Little Rose Inn was a tall stone building with a thatched roof. Hermione entered the front door, and rang the little bell that sat at the counter.

An older man emerged from a back room, and smiled until Hermione showed her pass. He ran his eyes over the slip of paper, his jaw clenched, and without looking at Hermione cried out, "Flora!"

There was a pounding of steps on the wooden staircase behind Hermione, and a round-faced girl her own age appeared, dress damp from the chest to the waist. "Yes?" She squeaked.

"Mudblood," the man said, thrusting Hermione's pass back at her. As soon as she took it he disappeared into the back room.

It wasn't the first time someone had refused to help Hermione, but she never got used to the sting. Her eyes felt gritty and her cheeks burned as she turned to Flora, who looked at her in sympathy.

"Have you got a reservation?" Flora asked gently.

Hermione nodded, and forced her voice to sound cheerful. "My mistress has one. It's for Lestrange. Bellatrix Lestrange."

"Oh!" Flora's blue eyes went wide, and she slid behind the counter. "She's not the first fighter we've had here. But she may be the most famous one!" She pulled out a ledger and flipped through it, nodding when she found what she was looking for.

"The Thorn Suite," Flora said, closing the ledger. To Hermione, she beamed, "It's the best rooms we have. And it's even got a little room for you, usually the Muggleborns sleep in the basement rooms."

Hermione pictured a bleak, dark room and silently thanked her mistress for needing the best.

"I'll show you up there," Flora said, leading Hermione up the stairs.

The Thorn Suite was on the top floor. Flora handed Hermione a heavy iron key, and another for Bellatrix, and then pushed open the door.

The sickly smell of dead roses assaulted Hermione's nose, and she let out a cough.

Flora nodded, "It's been a while since anyone's been up here."

Still, despite the smell the rooms were pretty. The walls were cream, and the large windows enchanted to be sunny. The wooden floor was covered in thick rugs with tangled roses and robins woven into them. There was a sitting area with pink silk armchairs, and a bed with pink silk hangings beyond it.

"The elves will send up the meals here," Flora said, indicating a table by the front door that was laid with tableware and cutlery for two. "Just place the dirty dishes in the bin underneath," she pointed to a plastic bin on a shelf beneath the table. "And the bathroom is through here, we replenish towels and such every morning."

Hermione glanced at the bright bathroom with the enormous bathtub and smiled. Bellatrix loved her baths.

"Your room is through here," Flora said, opening a door beside the bathroom. It was small and windowless, more of a cupboard than an actual bedroom, but Hermione smiled anyway. "Thank you," she said.

Flora grinned, "If you need anything let me know. After six we have an elf run the front desk. He'll get you anything you need."

Hermione thanked her again, and then turned her attention to getting the rooms ready. She unpacked her mistress' trunk, placing the clothes in the wardrobe, setting up the desk in the corner with Bellatrix's books and maps and potion kit, and then placing the stockpile of toiletries in the bathroom.

Then she unpacked her own suitcase in her room, and discovered the tiny door that led to the world's smallest bathroom. There was a toilet and a showerhead over the toilet, with a drain in the middle of the floor. There was just enough room for Hermione to stand in the middle with her elbows out, but not much more.

Embarrassment flooded her cheeks again. Muggleborns often had their own toilets, but at home she shared a nice, big bathroom with the other muggleborns, it was nothing as degrading as this. She slammed the door shut, and sat heavily on her bed.

_It's not worth it to be upset_, she told herself. _It's just the way things are_. Besides, in another hour her mistress would be back for lunch, and she would no doubt have much to tell Hermione.

Hermione settled on her bed and pulled a book down from the shelf above her pillow.

At noon the food came, but Bellatrix did not. Hermione set her book down and looked attentively at the front door, her back straight.

A clock on the mantle ticked the minutes away. They had been given hearty bowls of stew, and Hermione watched as the steam lessened, then dissipated entirely. White flecks of fat congealed on the skin that formed over the meat and potatoes, and Hermione's hunger turned to nausea.

In her three years of being… _dear_ to her Mistress, Bellatrix had never been late. Every promise she made had been kept. Hermione felt a thrill of fear, suppose the rebels had attacked? Suppose her mistress was lying in the street at that very moment, wounded or… or worse.

Hermione pressed her eyes closed and willed her head to stop spinning. Surely there would be an alarm of some sort if there was an attack, she told herself. The village was important, and near the school. They had to have a warning system.

Hermione thought of the man who owned the inn and her breath caught. Would anyone think to warn a muggleborn servant? No one would be blamed if something happened to her, she knew that. A Pureblood, or even a Halfblood, couldn't be expected to put their lives in danger for the likes of her.

Hermione's footsteps clattered across the floorboards as she crossed to the window and shoved the shutters open. Fresh air, cold and damp, crushed against her face, and she searched the street below, listening for any sound of a fight.

There was nothing. An older witch led a toddler by the hand, and the child's laughter floated up to Hermione. She watched the figures for a moment, relaxing as she took in their unhurried movements and smiling faces.

Then where was her mistress?

The sun slowly sank behind the housetops, and the stew was replaced by roast chicken and vegetables, with soft, fluffy rolls that kindled Hermione's appetite again. She gave her mistress half an hour before she placed a preservation spell over Bellatrix's plate and tore into her own. Hermione ate standing up, one eye on the door.

Afterwards she sat on the edge of one of the armchairs and chewed on her nails, as she watched the door.

It was past nine when the door burst open and made Hermione jump out of her skin. Bellatrix entered, her eyes dancing. "The Dark Lord is here to personally oversee our actions," she said, her voice full of excitement. "Why are you sitting in the dark? I made sure the rooms had a fireplace, it gets chilly so quickly here-" 

Hermione leapt to her feet as the logs on the hearth crackled to life and the lanterns that were placed around the room lit. "I saved dinner for you," she said, when really she wanted to demand what had taken Bellatrix so long.

Bellatrix didn't look at the chicken, "I already ate," she said, waving her hand. "We had a meeting room at the Three Broomsticks."

Hermione assumed that was a restaurant, and ducked her head, her feelings swarming.

"Where's my parchment and quill?" Bellatrix asked from near the bed. "I need to write to the Prophet right away, and then to Draco. He should have come instead of Lucius, really."

Hermione licked her lips, and said, "I unpacked everything- they should be in the desk drawer."

Bellatrix hummed in triumph as she found the requested items, and then sat down, her eyes intent on the words she wrote.

Hermione watched her, and felt a horrible yearning open up in her belly. It was as if she was at the bottom of a hole. Hermione had always been aware of their difference in stations and how foolish it was for her to feel for a Pureblood the way she felt for her mistress, but she never felt the chasm between them so keenly as she did standing there in that room.

Unable to bear the ache, she turned and stalked towards her room. With trembling hands she changed into her nightgown and curled up under the scratchy wool blanket on her bed. Her eyes remained open, staring at the shelf and hooks that held her clothing and the few books she had brought.

Maybe Mrs. Hawkins had been right, maybe Hermione should have stayed behind at the manor. She might have found someone in the village. She felt tears prick her eyes, and swallowed heavily against them.

No, she could never be content with someone from the village. Not after Bellatrix. The older woman had ruined her for all others. She was all Hermione thought about. When the girl pictured her future she saw her mistress' smile, the curve of her jaw, the blue veins of her arms as they Hermione close. Bellatrix was Hermione's whole world.

Eventually, the scratching of the quill ceased, and Hermione heard her mistress shuffle around the room, opening the wardrobe and muttering to herself as she prepared for bed.

"Granger?" Bellatrix's soft voice came a few minutes later from the doorway, "are you awake?"

Hermione considered closing her eyes and letting her breathing settle, but even as the thought occurred to her she sat up. "Yes."

"I didn't bring you north with me so that I could shiver in my bed all night."

Part of Hermione wanted to roll her eyes, but it was the only invitation she would get. She rose, and followed Bellatrix to the spacious bed by the windows.

"I have to wake early," Bellatrix said, "The Dark Lord wants me by his side while he plans. You should have seen him." Her voice grew soft and reverent, "It was just like the old days. Like no time at all had passed. He called me his most loyal, and Lucius' face was positively green with envy!" She cackled softly, and pulled Hermione close. "See if you can find something to freshen the air tomorrow, will you? It reeks in here."

Hermione nodded, "Ok."

"That's my Mouse." Bellatrix blinked her eyes and yawned, then rolled over onto her stomach, one arm posessively around Hermione's middle. "Wake me at 5," she mumbled sleepily.

Hermione whispered "Ok," again, and twisted so that she could watch Bellatrix's face as the older witch drifted off to sleep. The ache in her chest flared up as she watched Bellatrix's features slacken in the lantern light.

Yes, Bellatrix was Hermione's whole world.

And it killed her that she was not the same for Bellatrix.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione's days began to blur together. She had never known that war could be so boring. In the morning she persuaded her mistress to eat and helped her dress, and then she sat in the cheery little room until late at night when her mistress returned.

Sometimes she took a little walk around the village, to stretch her legs and pick up some sweets that she thought her mistress might like.

To pass the long hours of quiet solitude Hermione read. The clerk at the Book and Quill Shop was the only person whose demeanor did not change when she presented her Muggleborn pass. He seemed to take delight in Hermione's interest in history and began putting aside recommendations for her.

On one day a few weeks after their arrival, Hermione braved the blustery winds and drizzle to pick up some of Honeyduke's best chocolate for her mistress, and stopped at the Book and Quill Shop on her way back to the Little Rose Inn.

"Hermione! Back again so soon?" Roger, the clerk, asked. He was on the older side of middle aged, bald, and had a doughy but kind face. His blue eyes twinkled behind their spectacles as he moved from the display stand he was dusting to the front counter. "I had a shipment of books for the schoolchildren today, we often keep spares on hand in case any of the pupils misplace their belongings, and I thought you might be interested in _this_."

Curious, Hermione stepped up to the counter and took a look at the books Roger had put aside for her. Her cheeks colored in embarrassment as she noted that they were fourth year books. As a muggleborn, she had only received the equivalent of three years at Hogwarts.

"O-oh no," she stammered, "I couldn't."

Roger pushed the stack of books towards her, "There's no law against it," he said kindly.

It was true, there was no law against reading, only a law that forbade purebloods and halfbloods from teaching muggleborns without the proper licenses. Technically Hermione could teach herself anything.

But it still felt wrong.

"My magic isn't stable enough to try anything," Hermione said weakly. It had been drilled into her at the Institute. Her magic was weak, unstable, she was incapable of performing advanced spells.

Something akin to pity entered Roger's eyes, "Well, reading won't do any harm."

The books certainly were tempting. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4 looked especially alluring with its leather cover and embossed pages. Hermione's fingers stretched for it, and stroked the spine.

"Go on," Roger whispered, even though it was just the two of them in the shop. "What's the harm in reading?"

Hesitantly, Hermione looked over to the romance novels that lined the shelf. That was what she was supposed to read, she knew. Every other bookshop clerk directed her over to the romance section, or the mystery section. These novels had increased in number after the first war, and featured muggleborns in their "proper place." The covers were all variations of the same. There were a few household guides thrown in, spells on simple household charms that every witch or wizard should know. And she usually read them.

But Roger hadn't directed her to that section when she first entered. He had asked her what she wanted to read, and had made some refreshing recommendations. She had been so excited that she hadn't realized how reckless she was being. If her mistress found out-

_But would her mistress find out?_ A small voice suggested in the back of her mind. Her mistress had never paid attention to Hermione's books before. Nor had she tried to censor Hermione's learning. Hadn't she taken Hermione to all the lectures she went to? Surely there was no harm in _reading_.

"Ok." Hermione's voice was small, so small she was afraid Roger hadn't heard.

But the clerk smiled brilliantly and began to ring them up.

"Not that one," Hermione said as he pulled a book titled "Defense and Offense, Grade 4" from the stack. Cheeks aflame, she explained, "We don't get any lessons in defense or…" she cleared her throat, "I wouldn't be able to follow."

Roger pondered this for a moment, and then said, "Wait here."

Hermione watched him disappear in the back, and heard the rustling of several crates. When he returned he carried two books, "An Introduction to the Defensive Arts," and "Defense and Offense, Grade 1."

"On the house," he said, smiling kindly.

Hermione stammered her thanks, and just as he rang up the last book she crossed to the mystery section and pulled the first book she touched from the shelves. It depicted a grizzled wizard who glared up at Hermione. She'd read this one before, and was rather fond of it, but now she needed it for another reason.

"To put on the top," Hermione explained, feeling silly, "In case anyone looks…"

Roger nodded, "Clever thinking." He said, placing the mystery novel on top and tying it with string.

The bell above the door rang as Hermione turned to go, and a young woman stepped into the shop, a hood pulled over her hair. Her grey eyes met Hermione's, and Hermione smiled politely. There was something familiar about the curve of the woman's jaw and the gleam of her eyes, but Hermione was certain she'd never seen the woman before.

"I'll be along in a minute," Roger said to the woman, his voice suddenly serious. His steps followed Hermione to the door, and he tapped his wand to the sign in the window. The letters changed from "Open" to "Closed".

"Have a good day," Roger said to Hermione, and he waved her out.

Surprised, Hermione stood on the front step and stared at the door. The lights in the shop went out, and Hermione blinked. Perhaps the young woman was Roger's lover?

Deciding that must be it, Hermione made her way back to the inn, her body bent against the rain.

The warm room was welcome after the outside chill, and Hermione performed a basic drying spell on her robes as she hung up her cloak.

"There you are, Granger!"

Hermione jumped at the sound of her mistress' voice, and was keenly aware of the books in her hands.

Bellatrix glided into view, her cheeks flushed. "The Dark Lord is paying a visit this afternoon, I need everything to be perfect!"

"Y-yes, mistress," Hermione stammered, "Let me just put away my things."

"Hurry then," Bellatrix said, waving her on.

The books felt hot as a brand in Hermione's hands, and she rushed to her little room and shoved them under her pillow. The lump looked so ludicrous that Hermione had to untie the parcel to smooth them under her covers instead. She knew a spell that would disguise the covers, and she resolved to try it as soon as she could so that she could put the books on her little shelf.

Returning to the sitting area, Hermione spent the better part of an hour straightening, transfiguring, and running down to the kitchen to beg the harried cook for afternoon tea. Luckily, the cook was more enamored with the idea of the Dark Lord eating her food than offended at Hermione's insistence that she prioritize them, and she promised to send a full spread up to their rooms.

"Do something with your hair, Granger," Bellatrix snapped when Hermione returned, winded, to the rooms. "I won't have the Dark Lord thinking that I allow a slob as a maid."

Hermione returned to her room to find a cap to put over her unruly curls, as she did whenever they had company at the manor. Her cheeks burned in humiliation, and she wished that her hair was biddable.

The Dark Lord was ten minutes late, and her mistress spent the duration pacing back and forth before the door, her hands wringing together.

At last the knock came, and Bellatrix gasped, "Granger!" as she stepped back.

Hermione was already at the door, and she kept her head bowed as she opened it. "Welcome, my lord," she murmured, "may I take your cloak?"

The cloak was handed off to her, and Voldemort strode into the rooms, "Bella!" He said in a warm tone, "It's so nice to have a break from the pub. Thank you for suggesting this."

"Of course, my lord."

It was strange to hear her mistress sound so meek and unsure, and Hermione wanted nothing more than to squeeze Bellatrix's shoulders and reassure her. Doing that was impossible, however, so Hermione moved silently about the room. She poured tea, letting her mistress inquire how he liked his sugar and cream, and served the pastries that the cook had sent up.

At first, they talked about the resistance. Apparently there had been another attack on a muggleborn institute-

"Seventeen children stolen," Voldemort clucked, "One as young as three. If we can recover them quickly I think we'll be alright, but if we can't then…"

"We'll recover them quickly, my lord," Bellatrix said, her voice sure.

"I hope so, otherwise it would be kindest to them to end their misery before they get the wrong idea." He took a sip of tea, and there was a silence. Then, "Your own maid is from an institute, is she not?"

"She is," Bellatrix said, and every inch of Hermione paid attention.

"And you trust her enough to keep her in the room?" He did not sound concerned, merely interested.

"Granger is devoted to me, my lord. She would rather die than betray our plans."

"Is that so?" Voldemort cleared his throat, "Granger, come here."

It took Hermione a moment to realize that he had summoned her, but when she did she forced her feet to approach the leader of magical Britain. She kept her gaze on his shiny black shoes.

"Look at me, girl."

The command was spoken softly, but Hermione heard the iron edge in it. Her hands trembled as she lifted her gaze to shining red eyes. She flinched at the intensity she saw there, but forced herself to stay still.

"Your mistress says you are devoted to her, is that so?"

Hermione licked her lips, "Y-yes, my l-lord."

"Do not fear me, child," he said, and he placed a hand on her elbow. "I mean you no harm. I'm merely curious. You see, the resistance claims that the muggleborn children are miserable in their rightful place. That they lead terrible, demeaning lives when they grow up. I don't have many muggleborns in my service, you see, so I can't ask one easily."

He gave a kind smile, and Hermione forced herself to keep her eyes on him.

"Are you unhappy, Granger?" He asked, his voice as coaxing as if he were calling a stray cat, "Do you think the resistance is right?"

Hermione blinked, "Nooo," she said, "I'm perfectly happy my lord."

"Are you? Would you be happier in a different position?"

"No!" Hermione said, her gaze flicking to her mistress. Bellatrix looked on, her brow furrowed, and the trace of worry in her eyes hardened Hermione's resolve, "I don't want to be anywhere else, my lord," she said with conviction. "I live to serve my mistress."

His gaze was even more intent, and Hermione felt a headache grow gradually behind her eyes. She sniffed, and kept his gaze.

Suddenly, he blinked, and her headache disappeared as he broke into a broad smile. "You were right, Bella," he said, "She is devoted to you. Extraordinary."

Hermione chanced another look at Bellatrix, her gazed at her with warmth. Hermione felt as if she were flying, and ducked her head to hide her grin. She wasn't supposed to show affection in front of anyone.

"I'd like some more tea, Granger," Voldemort said, sitting back. "Two sugars, splash of cream."

Hermione nodded, and moved to prepare the tea.

"This is why we do it, Bella. They really are made for service, and they're happier in that role. I'm so glad you brought me here today."

Hermione kept her movements steady, but confusion washed over her. Suddenly the elated feeling in her chest felt more like betrayal, as if she had done something wrong.

"I'm so glad to help," Bellatrix said, "Do you agree to her accompanying us then? When we go north?"

Hermione set down his tea, and moved back to her position against the wall.

"Yes, I think it's safe to take her. You deserve the comforts of home, and I don't think you're in any danger of her having unwanted sympathies. You were right about her."

Hermione knew that it was a compliment, that whatever her mistress had said had been _in favor_ of her, but still her cheeks burned. She felt embarrassed, for some reason, and she hated herself for it. They were talking about her as if she were a- a _pet_.

Well, wasn't she a form of pet? A snide voice inside of her said. Her whole world revolved around her mistress. She thrust the thought down.

The talk turned to the future plans for finding the stolen children, and Hermione found out that they were moving into the field. They would spend the next few days searching, and would hopefully find the children before any permanent damage could be done.

He left before dinner, and Bellatrix turned to her once she was gone and wrapped her arms around her. "Good girl," she husked in Hermione's ear, "Good, _good_ girl. You've made me so proud."

Hermione felt her spirits rise again, and allowed her mistress to lead her to the bed. Their lovemaking was slow and gentle, with Bellatrix's quiet murmurs of "good girl," that simultaneously stirred Hermione and made her flush in embarrassment.

Afterwards, as Bellatrix snored gently against her shoulder, Hermione stared at the ceiling and thought of the books in her room.

She should get rid of them, she knew. They were proof that she wasn't the good girl her mistress thought she was.

But with Bellatrix warm against her, Hermione allowed herself to dream about a world where she taught herself the magic that a proper witch would have learned at school. Where she was just as clever and skilled as her mistress, and maybe, just maybe, Bellatrix would look at her with pride instead of anger. Maybe she could earn her mistress' approval by proving that she could be both a skilled witch and a devoted servant.

Tears pricked at her eyes as Bellatrix's hold tightened around her and she whispered sleepily,

"My good girl."


End file.
